


The Science of Christmas

by jessikast



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessikast/pseuds/jessikast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first year Mary shares a Christmas with Sherlock Holmes, she struggles to think of an appropriate gift for a retired detective who has everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendrecarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/gifts).



I had avoided thinking of Christmas in the winter of 1915 for as long as possible. My aunt's tendency to not observe Jewish traditions allowed me to avoid Chanukah while it came and went, but the appearance of festive trimmings around the village and a five-foot tree in the parlour meant that I was forcibly reminded of the season everywhere I went. Even Holmes' home was no refuge, as Mrs Hudson produced fruit mince pies and had been diligently sprinkling brandy over several large cakes. (Where she had acquired the sugar and butter despite rationing I wasn't quite sure, but she always had a peculiarly well-stocked pantry.)

Growing up, the holiday season in my family had been a mixture of Jewish and Christian traditions. Although my father's family weren't observant, they had Christmas traditions that my brother and I embraced eagerly. We also enjoyed Chanukah and helping my mother light the menorah. After the accident I could hardly bear to think of how I would face Christmas without them. My aunt's preparations I found distasteful, but I couldn't help how much they reminded me of my parents and brother. The previous year I was still hardly myself in December; this year the season was reminding me of bitter grief I thought I had mostly managed to swallow down.

I think I'd had a choice between hiding in my room for the season or taking on a project to distract myself. I couldn't bear to remain in such close quarters with my aunt and her relatives and acquaintances who were being invited to visit, so I turned instead to creating some kind of celebration with the people who had come to matter the most to me over the year. I took on the project with a kind of fervour and single-mindedness. The more I threw my energies into a different kind of Christmas, the more I could forget the traditions I _ought_ to be enjoying.

I scraped together what little allowance I had and set out to the small shops in the village to get appropriate gifts for Mrs Hudson and Holmes. Mrs Hudson was easy; she took joy in feminine things and household wares. Moreover, I knew she was missing her son (although his last letter about the sunny Christmas they were preparing for and a precious ham stolen by a dingo had caused some amusement) and would take any gift with good humour. For her, I found a stationery set for writing to her son and a treat of candied ginger.

Holmes caused me rather more consternation - which, I think, was all to the better, since the riddle of what to get him distracted me very well from the festive reminders around me. Holmes had particular tastes, and already owned all those things I could think to give him. His library was well-stocked, and I knew he had a standing arrangement with a bookseller in London to forward new editions of those volumes that would interest him. Chemistry supplies he already had in plenty. I could hardly give him bees! Mrs Hudson had mentioned to me that Watson had a tradition of giving Holmes tobacco and a new warm scarf for Christmas, so those were out.

I can only imagine that I must have endured some form of temporary insanity, because the idea that came to me was that I ought to bake Holmes a cake. Since I could neither bake, nor did Holmes particuarly enjoy cakes, I cannot understand now why this seemed like such an excellent idea. Not to mention that Mrs Hudson was a far better cook and baker than I could ever hope to be, and she had the aforementioned Christmas fruit cakes ready to go. However, with no other ideas on the horizon and a kind of festive fervour upon me, I helped myself to some of the ingredients my aunt had been stockpiling, stowed them carefully in the basket on my bike, and rode happily Holmes' home to invite myself into Mrs Hudson's kitchen on Christmas Eve.

To Mrs Hudson's credit and my eternal gratitude, she did not laugh me out of the kitchen when I explained my errand. She judiciously asked if I had a recipe in mind (I did not), if I had brought eggs (I had not), or if I would like to borrow an apron (I would, thank you). Mrs Hudson had a recipe book in which she had carefully and neatly written in recipes of her own and her mother's. It was something like a bible in her kitchen, and she drew it out now and opened it to a simple pound cake. I cast my eye over the instructions and confidently announced that I thought it looked quite lovely and if she might allow me a bit of bench space I would be quite able to make one of these.

Mrs Hudson provided the eggs I had not brought, a corner of the bench, mixing bowls and measures, and then she left me to my own devices.

Again, that she did not laugh when that first batter turned into a dense, hard rock of a cake. Nor did she raise an eyebrow and having to supply more eggs for the second attempt or butter for the third. She gently enquired how long I had beaten the eggs for and mildly suggesteed that more than "a quick mix" might help matters. She also reminded me to grease the cake tin when attempt three failed to exit the tin in one piece. Not to mention she prevented me from opening the oven door every five minutes to check the rising cake's progress and lose all the heat in the process.

At one point, Holmes stuck his head into the kitchen, no doubt drawn by my crashing and banging. He withdrew with alacrity when confronted by the sight of a fifteen-year-old girl glaring at him, flour on her shirt and hair, a smear of batter on one cheek, and a distinctly frazzled air.

As I viewed the pieces of the third attempt, a lump rose in my throat and I blinked back angry tears. The cake had come to represent Christmas itself, and I felt that if I failed now then no Christmas would ever be good again. It was not logical, but I was tired and grieving and furious with myself. Mrs Hudson saw what was happening, and wrapped me up in one of her splendid hugs with one arm. With the other she picked up a chunk of cake and tried it. 

"Well, it's edible," she said. "No doubt that you're getting there. One more try, maybe. But bless me, girl, whatever gave you the idea to make a cake?"

"I don't know!" I sniffled. I straightened and wiped my eyes on the corner of the apron, only transferring more flour to my face in the process. "I thought it wasn't that hard-" At a glare from Mrs Hudson, I hastened, "I mean, it wouldn't be hard if I had you to help me. I thought I could just follow the recipe..."

"Ah, well," said Mrs Hudson. "Recipes are all well and good, but I could see you cutting corners there. And it's part art and part science in any case."

I frowned, intrigued by this notion. Science was familiar territory, unlike a mixing bowl. "I suppose it is a bit like science. You have to measure the ingredients like you do chemical compounds..."

"My dear, they ARE chemical compounds! Or at least, edible ones. Well, maybe not _all_ edible-" here, she eyed attempts one and two "-but for all Mr Holmes fiddles around with his acids and powders, I don't know that he's ever thought about all that applies to what he eats. When he deigns to eat!" She sighed at my confused expression. "You're just as bad as him. What do you think baking powder is?"

I eyed the tin I'd been spooning the white powder from. "I'm not sure. It doesn't taste any good." That I was sure of, having accidentally managed to get some in my mouth earlier.

"It's a leavning agent. But it won't do much if you haven't beaten the eggs enough to hold air in the batter..." As she went on, Mrs Hudson explained the _whys_ of baking, helping me clean the bench and start attempt number four. With her explanations I felt understanding click into place; this was a way of thinking that made far more sense to me, and even if she was using kitchen terminology I could recognise descriptions of reactions that Holmes and I created in test tubes. When the fourth cake emerged light, risen, perfectly browned and in one piece from its tin I was elated. Mrs Hudson helped me cut it into layers to apply jam inside, and a sprinkle of powdered sugar on top. I beamed at my creation.

I had arranged to have a small meal on Christmas Eve with Holmes. Dr Watson was due to arrive in the late afternoon, and it was one meal in a small company when Holmes could persuade Mrs Hudson to join us for the meal. It was unavoidable that I would have to have a traditional feast with my aunt and guests tomorrow, but this was the celebration I looked forward to. Mrs Hudson first set me to helping clean up the kitchen while she finished the dinner, and then set me to clean up myself and put on a clean shirt before dinner. She even persuaded me into a skirt, and I have to admit I felt quite grown-up in the long skirt even while I grumbled about missing my trousers.

Dinner itself was everything that I thought was good about Christmas, and I quietly absorbed the good will and warmth as a store against the following days. I felt the lump in my throat again when it came time to exchange gifts. Dr Watson gave me a scarf of my very own, a shorter and lighter version of Holmes'. Mrs Hudson gave me some embroidered handkerchiefs, and Holmes a deliciously heavy selection of good reference books for my own. When I came time to present Holmes with his cake, a peculiar series of expressions crossed his face. Confusion and amusement warred with the social need to be polite in the face of an unexpected gift. For a moment I perceived the blunder in my choice, and I hastened to explain. I am not given to babbling, but I wished to forestall the cutting comment I was certain was to come.

"Mrs Hudson helped me," I explained. "The process of baking is really very interesting; did you read the paper two years ago about Maillard reaction-?" 

I broke off because Holmes' expression had settled into "trying not to laugh". I was nearly dismayed until I saw the twinkle in his eye. "Thank you, Russell. Yes, I have read that paper and I'm pleased that you've been able to exhibit a practical demonstration of the effect. I should like to say that I shall treasure this cake always, but I suspect that it would better serve us as dessert than a sample on the shelf. Mrs Hudson, would you be so kind...?"

Plates and a serving knife were produced quickly. I have to admit that everyone did pause a moment in trepidation at the first forkfull of cake, but given that I was among them and most familiar with my lack of baking skills, I can't say that I blamed them. However, the cake proved to be a testament to Mrs Hudson's recipe and a credit to my name. As I watched my most favourite people enjoy slices of the cake that I had made, I felt a smug happiness settle in my stomach. (Along with the cake.) Dr Watson allowed that he might have room for a second slice and Holmes picked up his violin to idly play some Christmas carols; and I felt certain for the first time in a year that even though I missed my family, here was the time and place where I would remember new Christmas traditions that would sustain me for many years to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! I enjoy the domestic moments that contrast with Russell and Holmes' interesting lifestyle, I hope you enjoy too :-) I highly recommend this article (http://www.theguardian.com/science/blog/2010/jun/09/science-cake-baking-andy-connelly) about the science of making a cake, which is fascinating and also the only reason why I understand any of this. Any remaining mistakes are my own, but hopefully delicious anyway.


End file.
